


Sehnsucht

by Blood Lightning (TheBrilliantDarkness)



Category: Tekken
Genre: Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, Mention of Character Death, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:37:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3233126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBrilliantDarkness/pseuds/Blood%20Lightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hwoarang doesn't have much to remember Jin by, but what he does have, he makes the most of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sehnsucht

**Author's Note:**

> I am fic-author-who-can't-write-summaries incarnate. A more honest summary of this story would probably be 'Hwoa has a sad post-Tekken 6 wank over Jin, feat. Jin's hoody' but I felt that was maybe too on the nose. Please excuse the pretentious title as well and enjoy!

Hwoarang tries to stay busy, but he finds more and more that hustling has lost all its flare. The people he once ran with now bore him beyond words, and even fighting has become an inane chore; opponents are as plentiful as they are easily dispatched, and it feels more-and-more to Hwoarang that the streets that once felt like a veritable kingdom of opportunity are beginning to throttle him.

But maybe it’s better that he still spends so much time out in the city, because when he’s home he slips into bad habits. This night is to be no different; and so, alone in the dingy apartment he can hardly afford, Hwoarang opens his wardrobe with a weary sort of resignation and pulls out Jin Kazama’s old hoody.

Hwoarang still remembers stealing the jacket. It had been during the fifth King of Iron Fist Tournament, following one of the rare sessions that Jin and Hwoarang’s training schedules had intersected and they’d both found themselves in the dojo at the same time. Baek’s presence had saved Jin from being subjected to the worst of Hwoarang’s usual posturing – but, upon ending his session before Jin and retreating to the changing rooms, Hwoarang’s frustration at not properly being able to engage his rival morphed into mischief, and he’d gleefully spirited Jin’s hoody away amongst his own clothes. At first, he’d fully intended on returning it to Jin; _it’s just a prank_ , he told himself, _when he notices, I’ll give it back and it’ll be a bit of a laugh_. But Kazama had never mentioned the absence of the hoody to anyone, as far as Hwoarang was aware; he simply stopped wearing that particular outfit, and Hwoarang found more and more that he didn’t w _ant_ to give it back – he hadn’t been able to articulate _why_ at the time, even if he is painfully aware of his reasons now. From time to time, Hwoarang catches himself wondering if Jin ever knew that he had been the one to take it – though, he supposes it no longer matters.

He sits on his bed and pulls the hoody around himself, tries to accommodate for the fact that it was made to fit to Jin’s bulk – Hwoarang was always leaner than his rival, but, with everything that’s happened in the past few months, his appetite has slipped and his body is struggling to maintain muscle. His efforts to make the jacket fit better are in vain. No matter how Hwoarang adjusts it, the hoody hangs loosely about his diminishing frame, the material never clinging to him in the same way it did to Jin - but he doesn’t mind, and finds that the fit is comforting somehow.

It’s never even occurred to him to get rid of the jacket – such a thought hadn’t even crossed his mind in the wake of Devil’s attack, nor as he’d set himself up as the leader of the Resistance against Jin’s Zaibutsu; the hoody had remained stashed away, and, in those stupid daydreams he’d had about saving Jin from his baser side, Hwoarang had wondered childishly whether the old piece of clothing might do something to jog his Jin’s memory and bring back the man he remembered. As it was, Hwoarang had never even come close to engaging Jin during the war, let alone putting any of his saviour fantasies into play; the last time he ever saw Jin in the flesh was moments before he found himself being ripped apart by the demonic half his rival had never thought to mention.

But Hwoarang pushes all that to the back of his mind, pulls his hands into the hoody’s oversized sleeves and, in turn, brings them to his face. He inhales deeply through his nose, and when he exhales it is in a shuddering gasp. Traces of Jin’s scent still linger in the fabric – that dark, unique musk, understated with the faintest hint of petrichor and lightning-charged air after a storm. Hwoarang reclines on the bed, hands still at his face, and his eyes slip shut.

There was a time where he’d denied any and all sexual attraction to Jin; if there was a certain intensity to the way he pursued him, then it was because of his overwhelming need to defeat Jin – but eventually, that need had morphed and shifted into something carnal. Hwoarang’s need for a rematch never changed – overcoming Jin in a fair fight had been his priority to the bitter end – but those visions of victory were peppered gradually with lewd daydreams about his rival. Initially, Hwoarang had panicked, tried desperately to shut them out; he hated complications, and pubescent, starry-eyed fantasies about Kazama certainly fell under that banner.

But now, with Jin gone, Hwoarang feels none of that same trepidation, none of that fearful restraint – because what does it matter anymore? Jin is dead. He’s dead, and he never fulfilled that promise he’d made in the fourth tournament, the one where he’d assured Hwoarang that they’d have their fair rematch when the chance arose (the fifth tournament doesn’t count, Hwoarang tells himself, because Devil interfered), never once even saw Hwoarang again after he’d savaged him and left him to rot. Hwoarang no longer has anything to work towards – but that misplaced desire still burns hot in his chest. He doesn’t care anymore that this ~~love~~ ( _no, not love, never love, only lust, only lust_ ) was, is, and will now forever be unrequited. If this is as good as he’ll get – sitting alone in the grotty room that only feels like home when he is as he is now, clothed in the stolen hoody – then he tells himself he is at peace with it.

And, likewise, he can trick himself into thinking that there’s nothing to be guilty about when he tries to forget that Jin is dead and gone, wracks his shattered frame of mind for those fleeting moments wherein he and Jin had been close to one another ( _their first meeting on the streets, the tense reunion at the King of Iron Fist tournament three, the fourth tournament when Jin had approached him and urged him to flee, lest the Korean army catch up with him, their long-awaited fight at the fifth tournament before everything had gone to hell, the heat of the fight, Kazama looking at him with dark eyes from beneath sweat-soaked bangs-_ ), and feels himself hardening into arousal.

It isn’t the first time he’s done this; it won’t be the last. Hwoarang keeps one hand, still covered by the jacket’s sleeve, at his face, quietly breathing in the last remnants of Jin’s scent, and trails the other down the satiny material that hangs loose about his chest until it comes to brush against the distinct rise in the crotch of his trousers. Making quick work of the buttons and flies, Hwoarang slips his hand into his jeans, gasps, bites his lip and cants his hips up when he curls his fingers around his cock.

He doesn’t care what Jin became – not in these moments. In Hwoarang’s fantasies, Jin is every bit the quiet, intense individual he remembers; of course, never having succeeded in courting any romantic or sexual attention from his rival, there are certain things Hwoarang has to improvise. His Jin is an attentive lover, gentle and unreservedly affectionate - everything Hwoarang has never known in any of his partners before. He imagines Jin stroking quietly over the fading ridges of his abs, imagines his old rival nosing harmlessly at his throat; he even pretends that he can hear Jin cooing words of encouragement and adoration in that soft, brilliantly deep voice.

‘That’s right,’ fantasy Jin murmurs as Hwoarang revels in the imagined sensations. Hwoarang bites back a moan, squeezes his cock and arches his back off the bed in bliss. ‘That’s it. You’re being so good for me.’

A strangled sound slips past Hwoarang’s lips, and he swipes his thumb over the underside of his cock as the praise echoes through his head and translates into a unique, breathtaking sort of pleasure. He never had fantasies so vivid before Kazama – hell, he’d never been much interested in being coddled in bed, never cared for treating sex as anything other than a fun way of passing the time; but as his attraction to Jin grew, so too did his desire for intimacy – and, as time passed, he found that he was nigh on unable to cum without his Jin talking to him and petting him. He doesn’t even need to imagine Jin fucking him – those fantasies certainly exist, sure, ones wherein Jin presses him down against the bed and fucks him slow and deep until Hwoarang is mewling and gasping through his climax; but he finds himself settling more and more for the scenarios that require no more of Jin than chaste touch and softly spoken praise and reassurance.

Hwoarang tries not to dwell on the implications of such things.

He can feel his Jin smiling against his neck, feels him run his fingertips feather-light down his arm, and Hwoarang trembles with want, a familiar pressure coiling low in his stomach.

‘I couldn’t live without you,’ fantasy Jin admits, and Hwoarang whimpers freely, quickens the pace of his hand over his leaking cock as he feels himself approaching the edge. ‘Look at you. God, you’re perfect.’

“Kazama,” Hwoarang gasps unashamedly, hips moving spasmodically as the pleasure hits its peak. “Oh, fuck, _Jin_ -"

He cums into the confines of his jeans with a near sob, thighs twitching spasmodically as he works through his orgasm, thrusting shallowly into his hand. Spent, Hwoarang slumps against the bed, boneless and exhausted, the hoody rising and falling with the heaving of his chest – but there is no trace of satisfaction. Instead, guilt creeps down his spine, regret settles in his stomach, and the knowledge that Jin is dead and that he is desperately alone returns.

Why does he keep doing this to himself?

Why can’t he just _let go_?

Hwoarang doesn’t find any answers in peeling himself off the bed and forcing himself out of the jacket; no epiphany strikes him as he stands in the shower, hoping that the water might strip out some of the shame that has long since burnt into his skin; and when he returns to his worn-out room, he only goes for the hoody again, pulling it on and settling on the bed with a heavy sigh. He curls up on his side, lets his eyes slip shut and quietly wraps his arms around himself. If he can only pretend just a little longer, if he can only allow himself the delusion that Jin is still here, that Jin wants _him_ and is with him now –

But there is no warm, comforting weight at his back, no gentle whispers of reassurance, nor hands stroking soothingly down his sides. All he really has is the ill-gotten hoody and the scant memories he’ll yet chase a thousand times over.

Those truths bore into his mind, keen and sharp, and sleep doesn’t come to him for a very long time.


End file.
